


Passage of Darkness

by Aminias



Series: I Do Not Fear The Valley (For I Am The Shadow) [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Devil and Tom Walker -heavily based off
Genre: -not by mains, Alternate Universe, BAMF Stiles, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dark Comedy, Deputy Derek Hale, Deputy Parrish - Freeform, English Jackson, F/F, Families of Choice, French Argents, Hispanic Character, Lots of Gun Language, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Native American Character(s), Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polish Stiles Stilinski, Pretty much just took the names and ran, Racist Language, Scottish Irish Martins, Shooting Guns, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow burn is more like low grade three day chili cooking simmer, Thriller, and I do mean that a lot, dont ask me what im doing, lots of Gun talk, love at first snark, most of this fic is T rated, plot heavy, this is going to get long son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-14 07:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9168595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aminias/pseuds/Aminias
Summary: Don't fear the reaper, he is merely a passage of darkness.____Stiles Stilinksi is back in town and the place might very well burn to the ground.





	1. (Savage) Son, Get Your Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to Dena for being a ort notice Beta :)
> 
> Endgame goal 50,000 words...
> 
> This is largely an original work be ready for the long haul and to get gritty. This books not polite. It is funny I can't help myself there but reads more like a dark ironic comedy than anything else. I also warn you there will be strong discussions of racial prejudice and guns. The History of California will be accurate as possible (I'm a nerd sue me) if something isn't accurate I will say so. The same goes for any mention of guns, I am a gun owner myself and have a pretty good handle on things that being said mistakes do happen and there are a variety of options. 
> 
> or
> 
> That time I wrote a long work about Beacon Hills being a small town plagued with prejudice, steeped in mystery and boiling with discontent and Stiles is in the thick of it with a steaming cup of "save the day" brew.
> 
> Finally, I invite you to join me for the long haul folks. :)

> **Dad always said time doesn’t change folks,  it’s folks who change in time. I’d wager it’s a bit of both.**

  
  


Stiles pulls into the old Exxon station with a pack of M&M's, four empty water bottles, a revolver, and a burning desire to pee. The plan is to stop, get some gas, ditch the trash, and get going. 

 

He fights with his seatbelt and fumbles around the passenger side for his trash. It’s an easy move with the bench seat. Of course, he whacks his elbow on the dash and then hits his head on the glove compartment when the thing falls open. When he's done hissing curses and kissing boo-boos, he sees the revolver. The thing’s an antique, though not quite as ancient as its forefathers. The car is much the same there aren't many 79’ Mercury Cougars rolling down the street. His old Jeep had been left behind. The guns another relic. It’s been in the family since before he was born. Stiles remembers his father, hands large and calloused over his own, showing him how to grip the handle. The 4”inch  barrel glints faintly in the afternoon light. 

 

_ Sheriff's model, _ his mind supplies. He bites his lip, swallowing harshly. The feeling of firing the Peacemaker is not something you forget. He can hear the click of the hammer being cocked in his ear, the ignition being stuck. He remembers how the gun bucks like a wild bronco in his sweaty grip, as well as the large flash and jerk as the bullet flew towards its mark.  _ Never put your hands on the trigger unless you mean to pull it.  _ He exits the car, taking the gun and leaving the trash.

 

Old Charlie is still behind the counter, his skin dark as the numerous and indiscernible coffee stains that litter the counter.

 

“That you, Stiles?”  _ The dead man's son.  _ The man’s wizened visage is drawn taut with concentration as he squints over his glasses. 

 

“That’s me,” Stiles confirms, mouth dry from the dust. 

 

“Hmphf.” Charlie eyes his purchase of Funyuns with close scrutiny. He rings up the purchases, his old shoulders tenser than usual. 

 

“Still the same amount per gallon?” he asks, pulling his card from his wallet for the snack. He hands it over and grabs the Funyuns. Charlie swipes the card and then gives a suspicious look to Stiles.  _ Oh shit…  _ Stiles politely doesn’t mention the way Charlie’s other hand goes to rest under the counter. Manners are important. Besides, he’d prefer not to be on the business end of the .22 Henry rifle. Charlie may be old, but that just means he’s had plenty of time to become a deft hand with the lever action rifle. Charlie doesn’t mention the two elephants in the room: the name on the screen of the register, and his hand under the counter.

 

“Pump’s out.” Charlie's voice is gruff as the gravel lot outside. 

 

Stiles smiles. “C’mon man don't be like that. It's been years.” The only sounds in the small station for several seconds are the hum of the air conditioning unit and buzz of the desk fans. Then, the distinctive click. Message received. 

 

“Dun said pump’s out.” Their eyes meet and Charlie's hard wrinkles press over his brows. 

 

“Charlie--” Stiles begins. The Revolver rests in the waistband of his jeans, metal cool against his skin. 

 

“Gi’t goin,’” the man grumbles. Stiles gets going, and the door cheerfully jingles behind him. 

 

Driving away shouldn’t feel like a defeat, but it holds the lingering bitterness of one.  _ So much for small town charm.  _ He sits in what passes for traffic, idly watching the gas gauge on the old Ford truck. It’s fine, he has enough to make it into town and to his dad's place...to his place. Gripping the steering wheel till his knuckles turn white doesn’t help the next few minutes pass by. Each red light feels like a personal vendetta. 

 

He stews in the heat, baking in the car ‘cause the air conditioner gave up two hundred miles or so back. Stiles had originally rolled the windows down, in hopes of catching some of the breeze. His baby had protested this action and only the driver’s side listened. The light finally turns green. He takes that right turn at the Cafe. The vehicle stutters along, picking up the pace to a whopping fifteen miles per hour. The bench seat’s faux leather creaks beneath him.

 

He’s five minutes from the house and making the last turn off from the main drag when he sees it. The red and blue light flashing in his mirror. Stiles pulls to the side of the road with a groan.  _ What now?  _ The left tail light had to be out again. His eyes once more flicker to the revolver he’s left lying on the floorboards this time.

 

_ Shit. _ He has enough time to move it back unless... He checks his phone, using the device as a mirror. Sure enough, one of the boys in blue is already up the length of the car. He bites his lips. No time. Its risky but Stiles uses his foot to slide the gun under the seat.  _ It will have to do.  _

 

He grabs his papers from the glove compartment where his Beretta glares forlornly, displeased at its exile and replacement.  _ I know baby, I’m sorry.  _ He whacks the compartment closed with a huff. He would have been more worried about keeping his hands on the wheel if the man hadn't already been waiting outside the driver’s door. 

 

Stiles fights for several minutes with the window crank as the officer smiles pleasantly at him. He’s young for the force’s usual, and his is a new face that Stiles doesn't recognize. Which, ya know, considering how long it’s been, should be less of a surprise. He continues his battle with the jammed window. Several stilted moments of chanting and prayer later, the thing slides open. Stiles apologetically hands over his papers and ID.

 

The Deputy, as his badge proclaims him to be, has stood affixed beside the truck this entire time. His smile, which at first had been a perfunctory thing, is now bright with white teeth shining in the setting sun. 

 

Wow. His nametag reads “Parrish.” The names familiar. 

“Hello,” Parrish says clipboard in hand.  _ Soft she speaks what light thru yonder window break.  _ Stiles laughs to himself. 

 

“Hi. Uh, sorry about that, what can I do for you, my dude?” he effects with a grin.

 

“You can fix that tail light,  _ my dude _ ,” the Deputy parrots, eyes crinkling with good humor. 

 

It reminds him of his dad, and Stiles can see why his father liked the Deputy in the few instances he’d spoken of him. _ The man might come off clean cut and like a good ‘ol boy, but he has the sense of humor needed to deal with the tough cases.  _ His father's voice drawled briefly trapping him in memory. 

 

“FBI,” Parrish begins with a raised eyebrow looking at his card.

“Heard your dad talking about how you became a big shot. Welcome back, Stiles.”

“Thanks. Can’t say it’s good to be back, but well, what can you do?”

 

The deputy returns the I.D. Stiles tries not to let his breath of relief be too obvious. 

 

“Everything looks in order but that tail light,” Parrish reminds, his voice heavy with warning.

 

“Right-o, it’s on my to do list,” Stiles admits, scratching his neck. Nothing to see here, just a harmless young man who used to be local.

 

The Deputy shifts his weight, shaking his head. “Try and get it taken care of before someone else has to point it out...would hate for you to get stopped.”

 

Translation: I’m letting you off ‘cause of your old man, but be careful. The game's afoot. 

Well, maybe not exactly that, but close enough.

 

“Gotcha.” Stiles snaps his fingers. Hyman’s cough sounds suspiciously like an aborted laugh. 

 

Then, the Deputy seems to draw himself up the line in his back, easy stance disappearing. It’s like the door to an open room has been shut. “I’ll take you the rest of the way,” Hyman supplies. By this time both of their smiles have faded with the last rays of light.

 

“To his place,” the man amends. 

 

Stiles’s hands twitch. There’s a heaviness resting behind his eyes, and the pounding in his head briefly threatens to overwhelm him. He blinks, clearing his mind.  _ Now’s not the time.  _ The Deputy doesn’t wait for a reply. 

 

Lesser men than Stiles would have called the cop’s return to his patrol car a retreat. He doesn’t. Stiles  rolls the window back up, shutting out the warm summer air and the sound of crickets. 

He puts the vehicle back into gear and, after a few moments, they are rolling again. 

Stiles switches the headlights on. Night is falling.

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are wolves in the wood and monsters in the houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, there you may notice this is entirely different now. I've been reworking this idea and revamping some things

 

> **Some places are eternal others feel eternal, the gas station was one.  
> **

 

The wind careened through the gas station clawing past metal and concrete, ripping through cracks in the wall, chilling Old Charlie to the bone. 

He’d lived through countless seasons in this town. Grandpappy had been the founder of the first-way station which had evolved into the mom and pop type store that existed now.  

He was usually laid up in the cabin out back by now. No point in staying up longer if anyone wanted gas they could go to the fancy pants Shell station down the way.  

The town's citizens knew better than to venture out in the dark. 

The devil could take you.  

Charlie sent up a brief prayer and clutched his gnarled hands to the gun.

“We’re closed.” He huffed feet thudding with each step.Charlie hadn’t meant to stay so late it was barely dusk truly. Yet night it seems had fallen.

The chime on the door jangles. 

He turns around brandishing his rifle fingers white. 

“I done told ye were closed”  The old man's hand briefly went to his shirt. Reassured that the charm sat safely on its chain, Charlie shuffled to the door. He looked down, squinting  at the orange  letters that now read “open.” 

Peering into the darkness he found the parking lot empty. 

Charlie set down his rifle and reached towards the old display. 

He never got the chance to flip the sign. 

The wind rushed through the tree’s snarling past branches, tossing up leaves, till growling it circles a nearby forest clearing. A man held something clasped tight in his grip and grinned. 

  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things move along

  
**I wasn’t looking for trouble; he’s been my constant companion since birth.**

* * *

  
The morning is still. The branches are barely stirring and the birds are not inclined to chirping.  
All quiet on the western front. Stiles is sweating in exertion from his run. He stumbles back into the house, resembling a newborn lamb with his lack of grace.  
At first, he’d planned on running in the park route, but a bored looking cop had dissuaded him from the notion. Animal attacks. Something had happened with Old Man Charlie last night.  
News travels fast in a small town. .  
Can you say “active crime scene” three times fast? Stiles snorts Fucking kids. God, he used to be one of those kids. He sounds old. He feels old. Tired... Rickety to his bones. Next thing you know, he’ll be yelling at people to get off his lawn or to stop digging up his petunias!  
  
Some things never change. Stiles leaves his iPod on the counter. The eyes of the pictures framed in the hall. Their eyes seem to watch his steps. His pace quickens. Stiles vaults up the stairs. Honestly, his relief is from being at the top of the landing, nothing else. He walks past the master bedroom and pointedly snakes his gaze away from the closed door.  
  
Question: How often does he lie?  
  
Answer: It’s a tactful omission of the truth.  
  
~~Cross Examination: Those count too.~~  
  
He meanders into his old bedroom.  
Stiles strips efficiently. He keeps the clothes in a wrinkled, yet mostly cohesive heap. He lays his shoulder holster on the bathroom counter. He does not look in a mirror. The steam of the shower curled around the space, making it a moot point. Stiles steps out and curses as his feet kiss the cool tile.  
  
The predawn shines through the windows of the suburban streets. Crisply manicured lawns greet him. Wooden fences are stretched out far as the eye can see. Beyond that the mountains stretch up like wings of a bat, black and pointed in the morning sky. Rain slides down the window like hopes into the ground. Life is better on the other side. That’s what they all thought at first, then they got there. He pulls on a white tee and a plaid shirt from the drawer. Throwback Thursday here. The only thing that’d make it complete would be trading jokes with the boys in blue.  
Why not? Seems as good an occasion as any to head down to the police station.  
  
Stiles crams an omelet into his mouth and washes the dishes in the sink. He puts the second omelet in the fridge for later. He grabs his key from the hook. He also catches his threadbare jacket on the doorknob when he leaves. Just like old times. Except not. It never will be again. He isn’t in converse, but sturdy boots that don’t leak water. The state of his jeans has also improved. The slide of them against his seat is both familiar and new. He pulls out of the driveway without having to maneuver around another vehicle. Stiles carefully keeps his eyes on the road and not the house. Not a problem.  
  
“If it isn’t FBI Stiles come from the big city to grace us with his skinny-ass presence.”  
Stiles groans. Bartholomew or Bart was just who he didn’t want to see manning the desk.  
“Bart...” He smiles. There goes his chance of subtlety and getting out of here fast.  
“Don’t be like that, Spanky.” the man waved. “Cop a seat and keep and ole man company.”  
Stiles takes a seat on the desk like he used to. The space is still a mass of cluttered paper threatening to jump ship unto the tiled floor below. Some things never change,  
Bart might have been half-blind with a tendency for spilling coffee everywhere, but he did manage the records with ease. Bart squints at the files in his hands. He hums thoughtfully. Stiles kicks his feet waiting. There was no use rushing him. Bart would simply let him stew longer.  
  
The clock ticked in the background. Coffee brewed. Doors opened and closed. Stiles fiddles with his phone playing one of his games. He taps his fingers and runa a hand through his hair in frustration.  
  
“Do you have those files yet?” Stiles inquires. Bart jerks in his seat, slamming his files down. Stiles drops his hand at the last minute and lets it brush by his hip instead.  
  
“Do I have the files?” Bart adjusts glasses as his eyes narrow whole form vibrating in outrage.  
  
“Do I have the files! Boy, I can recite the files! How long were you dropped in that city slick?”  
  
“Longer than you, I’d wager.” An amiable man with a receding brown hairline and wide-set shoulders strides over to Bart. Maxamillion, better known as Max, places a heavy hand on his on Bart's Chair.  
  
“Whats going on here boys?” The man good-naturedly rumbles. Bart seems to settle himself and adjusts his jacket.  
“Jus’ some files for mystic boom boom here,” The archivist hisses like a cat.  
  
“Uh-huh. You're trouble; that's what I think,” Grinned Max.

“Did I ask what you think?” Bart snaps as he dug for his papers.

He had yet to brush of Max’s hands but was squinting and scowling something fierce.  
Stiles hid a smile with his hand and tried not to let his laughter be too obvious.  
Bart was sure to get those files if only out of spite now that Max was involved.  
  
“Job’s not to think. It’s to file, ain’t it?” Max countered.  
  
“You hear this boy?” Bart asks, shaking his head. Stiles musters up a nod.  
“Next thing we know he’ll have me in the kitchen.”  
  
“Sure nitpick enough to be a woman. Know your place, wife,” Max chuckles.  
  
“This is oppression I tell you! Oppression! My husband is oppressing me!” Bart fumed.  
Stiles smiled. “Max, Bart’s a strong independent woman who don’t need no man.”  
“Ahhhgh damn right,” Bart clarified.

“What’s all this?”

Stiles hops off the desk in surprise at the new voice.  
  
“Why, I’ll be darned if it isn't Deputy Hyman.” Max drawls. “C’mon Bart, it’s getting upwards noon time.”  
“Always bossing me around; that's men for you.” Bart said with a grumble, fiddling with his pens.  
  
“You're a man an if yah shut it, there's lunch in it for yah,” Max counters.  
  
Bart mutters something under his breath about feminism and he handed Stiles a file.  
  
“Hurry up. Without some food you're gonna drop down faster than a drunk girl on stilettos.” Max frets.  
  
Bart stood grabbing his leather jacket from off of the chair.  
  
“Thanks,” Stiles said in a hushed voice.  
  
The weight of the folder in his hands both anchored him to the now and threatened to drag him down.  
  
“Don’t thank me, Spanky. Just smile more often. You're too young for that frown. Us old men need to be the quibblers.” Bart pats Stiles.  
  
“Later, scrawny,” Max says in parting, dragging Bart after him in a flurry of papers.  
  
The office door slams shut and shakes the wall.  
  
“So...” Stiles awkwardly begins.  
  
“So.” Hyman mimes. Despite the blankness of his face, Stiles has the impression he is being mocked.  
  
“I’m just going to… go then...” He gestures desperately to the door.  
  
“Great, I’ll come with you! It's about time for a break,” Hyman smoothly replies.  
“Ok?” Stiles blinked. Was he just being friendly or..? He had to be reading too much into this. The guy worked with his dad.  
  
Hyman thumbs his belt loops with a smile. “I was thinking Martin’s Pub?”  
  
“Martin’s Pub?” Stiles's eyes widened. “Martin as in Lydia Martin?”  
  
“The very same. Why?”  
  
The last time he’d seen Lydia she’d been on the fast track to anywhere but here. Just like him.  
His stomach turned and his hands felt clammy around the file. Stiles cast his gaze wildly around and back peddles towards the door.  
  
“Stiles?”  
  
“I...I’ve got to go!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Breathe a sigh of relief Parrish is one of the good guys. or is he?


End file.
